


You Are The Sound That I Hear

by xxjinchuurikixx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Bonfires, Cider and Ale made them do it, Dirty Talk, Forest Sex, M/M, Mating Dance, Meddling Kids, Mentions of knotting/mating, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Scenting, Semi-Public Sex, Three-way dance with Stiles/Isaac/Erica, Virgin Stiles Stilinski, werewolf traditions, wolfsbane alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 03:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: Hunter's Moon is a huge festival for the wolves of Beacon Hills, and Stiles refuses to go. Until Scott gives him a reason to show up to the most primal, feral moon festival of the year.*In which Stiles and Derek roll in the grass, as wolves ought to.





	You Are The Sound That I Hear

**Author's Note:**

> I have returned, with some filth. This fic has been in the works for AGES, but more about that at the bottom.  
If you haven't heard [The Wolf by Fever Ray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zqz55W5RbQw/) then you haven't lived, for one, and you gotta get into the FEEL for this forest sex, so I recommend a listen.
> 
> xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

“Hunter’s Moon is this Friday,” Scott says as he sets his cup in the sink. Stiles gives him a double dirty look, one layer for the extra dish, and one for mentioning Hunter’s Moon.

John looks up over the edge of his coffee mug, eyebrows raising. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Scott says emphatically, ignoring Stiles’ glare as he starts washing the cup. “I’m going with Allison.”

“That’s great, Scott. Good to see things are going well for you two,” John says, and Stiles can feel his dad’s eyes on the back of his neck. “So, Stiles…”

“Father,” Stiles says, looking over his shoulder as he rinses the cup and a few plates.

“Are you going to the party?” John asks.

Stiles looks back in the sink and pulls the plug. “No, I don’t think I’ll be partaking in the festivities this season,” he says easily, drying his hands on the towel hanging from the stove.

Beacon Hills is a predominant werewolf community, and as such, they follow the moons of the seasons and have fantastic festivals in the Firewolf Field clearing just inside the forest. It’s more of a meadow, really, Stiles thinks absently as he rinses out the sink of suds. In the summer months, there’s a shit-ton of flowers and the grass is soft, and deer dance through the shadows in the tree line. It’s all very Bambi-Twilight flower child, and Stiles isn’t up for that scene this moon.

The most exciting festivals are the Wolf Moon in January and the Harvest Moon in September. Those moons give wolves energy and life, and all the magic in the forest pulses in their veins. It’s a time for running through the woods, howling and hunting, to be _ wolves _. The most peaceful moon is the Snow Moon in February, when snow covers the ground and all the wolves are in their dens nesting the winter away.

The Hunter’s Moon, named so for the vitality and drive it gives the wolves, is the most… carnal.

Yes, that’s the word for it. It’s a mating moon; a moon that glows golden through the trees in the youthful, crisp cold of fall, and even the most reserved of werewolves let slip their inhibitions. Bonfires crackle in the meadow, and honeyed wolfsbane cider drips like fire from tongues, and everyone wears furs and dance to pounding drums. The less reserved even take to rolling in the grass naked with their mates during the Hunter’s Moon, and Stiles has no intention of becoming drunk and stripping for the town he has to live in for the foreseeable future.

Due to the nature of the Hunter’s Moon festival, you also have to be at least sixteen to attend. Had Stiles gone last year, it would have been his second time. But going zero times means it’s his second time _ not _ going.

“Stiles,” his dad says, like he’s saying it a second time.

Stiles blinks up at him, and he sees he has sprayed Scott and the counter with the sink hose. “Sonova—ham, I’m sorry, Scott,” Stiles says, and he shuts off the water and fumbles for a dish towel for Scott’s soaked shirt.

“Dude, you should come to the festival. It’s more fun than you think,” Scott says, pressing the towel to his abdomen. 

Yes, Scott would know how fun Hunter’s Moon is. He went last year with Danny and the twins, and Stiles took one of the best naps of his life. Sure, the moon tugged and pulled at him, and he wanted to hop, skip, and jump into the woods looking for something he didn’t even have a name for. But the power of naps prevailed.

“I don’t know. It’s… It’s a little less exciting for me,” Stiles says, ringing his hands together.

Stiles’ dad and Scott share a look, and then John looks down at his coffee.

Scott clamps his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezes, lightly. “I’ll be there with you, you know. I won’t even drink; I’ll look after you.”

Stiles sulks. “I don’t want to be babysat. I would go if I had a reason to—any reason,” Stiles says, and he looks at Scott, who is still very wet. “Let’s just get you another shirt.”

“Yeah, thanks for the bath, though,” Scott teases, and John grumbles something about ‘these kids’ as Stiles and Scott exit the kitchen.

Up in Stiles’ room, Scott takes off his shirt and sits on the floor in front of Stiles’ bed, leaning back against it. It’s something he has done for a handful of years now, and everytime Stiles sees it, he loves his best friend a little bit more.

Not the taking off the shirt part, but the sitting on the floor. When Stiles presented, Scott went out of his way to reduce his scent rubbing on things that had suddenly become more personal to Stiles. Stiles’ bed and the left-hand side of the sofa downstairs are the two biggest things Scott avoids physically.

“Okay, so. Let’s get you a nice Batman shirt,” Stiles says, opening his t-shirt drawer.

“No. You’re not making me wear Bruce Wayne around,” Scott retorts, styling his wet shirt on the floor into a little mushy mountain.

“You should be honored to wear my Batman shirts.”

“You should be honored your best friend would offer to skip out on wolfsbane cider so you can come to a party,” Scott tosses back. His tone is teasing, but Stiles pauses his hunt through his shirts to look at his hands.

“Scott… I don’t want to deal with other wolves at the bonfire orgy,” Stiles sighs.

Scott sits up and points at him. “Hey, it’s not an orgy. Nobody ever actually gets that crazy. If two wolves just happen to end up humping in the grass near another pair of wolves, who’s to judge?”

“People will judge _ me _. ‘There goes Stilinski—he smells like apples. I wonder what kind of hijinks he and his butt have gotten into lately, if any!’”

“Stiles, literally nobody talks like that,” Scott says dryly. 

“People don’t discuss the virginal status of unmated omegas?”

Scott groans loudly, scrubbing a hand down his face. “No, they don’t. No one cares.”

“They care. _ Oh _, they care. I heard Mullins asking Danny if he thought I’d ‘settle for a beta’.” His voice drips disdain with the words.

Snorting, Scott says, “You’d never settle for anything less than the best.”

A thought ticks in Stiles’ mind, of unruly broad shoulders and leather, black hair, a strong jaw dark with scruff, honey and jade eyes bleeding red. He has destroyed half of his well-organized shirt drawer.

“You do realize I am the only omega born under our moon. Right? In our age group, I am the only omega. Like, I am essentially the biggest loser in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, and Scott slouches against the bed.

“Well, you’re looking at it the wrong way. You’re the _ only _ omega born under our moon. Like… you’re a treasure. Your milkshake brings all the alphas to the yard,” Scott says.

“You don’t come to my yard for milkshakes,” Stiles huffs.

“I’m not gay, pal.”

“Well, I’m not sure Lydia is gay, but she _ also _ doesn’t come to my yard.”

“You’re missing the point, Stiles.” Scott sits up, looking at Stiles ruining his shirt drawer. “You’re like a precious commodity. A fleeting resource. Someday, wolves will fight over you.”

“That sounds scary,” Stiles says, shuddering. He tries to fold another shirt and succeeds in unfolding three.

In his head, he sees red eyes and dark fur, fangs flashing as wolves snap at each other’s necks just because Stiles’ smell has drugged them into being mindless animals. Ugh. Better to be the loser everyone ignores than someone people draw blood over.

Stiles tosses a soft, navy shirt at Scott, who catches it. “Anyway, I’m saying I don’t want to go to a party that is notorious for drunken wolves dry humping by bonfires.”

“Afraid for your honor?” Scott teases, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Afraid for their noses,” Stiles growls. He mimics a hard swat. “_ Bad dog. _”

“Then I’d have to pull you out of a fight.”

“Any alpha tries to dry hump me without permission, I won’t need your help, pal.”

Scott laughs, and he gets up and drapes his arm over Stiles shoulders. “Fierce omega. You totally wrecked this drawer.”

“I am the fiercest omega, this drawer had it coming. Let’s go have some pie, before dad starts crying.”

“Agreed.”

Stiles’ mind as he eats pie with his dad and Scott is all about hypothetical scenarios where he becomes a town legend for being the omega who kicked all the alpha ass on Hunter’s Moon. It’s not very realistic, but compared to the alternative, it’s the better movie.

*

Friday arrives in a gust of fog, and Stiles already wants the weekend to be over. Halloween falls on a Tuesday this year, which is completely lame and it sucks quite badly, but if Stiles can just muddle through the Hunter’s Moon he can have candy.

A cool thing about Moon festivals is that the town has special rules and awesome exceptions. Like how school is out the day of and the day after a Moon festival, and there’s holiday pay if you have to work, but everything closes early anyway.

Stiles is climbing out of the shower just before sundown when the bathroom door swings open, Scott standing there in a ridiculous costume of jeans, a white pirate shirt, and a patchwork of rabbit fur over his shoulders. He also has a pair of jackelope-sized antlers on his head.

“Dude, you need to get dressed!”

Stiles nearly slips into the toilet, but manages to sit down on the closed lid with his towel around his hips. “_Dude!_ _You_ need to _knock!_”

Scott scoffs, “As if,” and shuffles into the bathroom. “I already asked your dad to get you something to wear and he said he has just the thing, whatever _ that _ means.” He pulls out Stiles’ toothbrush and toothpaste, and then his comb, and his styling pomade—which Scott knows Stiles only wears for special occasions, like Christmas or Marvel movie premiers.

“Scott—“

“I need you to come to the festival with me. Please. It’s gonna be fun. Danny will be there, and Isaac, too,” Scott says, and that gets Stiles’ attention.

“Isaac,” he says, and thinks about gold curls and an adorable smirk and also, Isaac likes Jackson, who is with Lydia, who Stiles used to like…

“Well, plenty of people are gonna be there. It’s _ Hunter’s _Moon.”

Nodding, Stiles gets up and wraps his towel more snugly around his hips. “Get out of my house before I show you my dick, because I know we both don’t want that.” He pushes a hand against Scott’s chest, which is burning hot with a heavy heartbeat behind his ribs, anxious for the rise of the moon.

“Stiles, you are coming with me, because I know something you don’t know.” Scott almost sing-songs the words, and Stiles pushes him from the bathroom and shuts the door. This time, he locks it.

“That’s fascinating, Scott! Goodbye and have fun!”

Through the door, Stiles can hear Scott’s heart, and he leans over the sink and wipes the steam from the glass. In a tone that is too teasing for Stiles’ own good, Scott says against the door, “Hale will be there.”

Stiles looks up at himself in the mirror, his own heart’s uptick registering in his ears. Swallowing, Stiles stamps down the rising delight his wolf is sending through his veins. “Which one? There’s quite a few H-Hales…”

Scott thrums his fingertips against the door. “Are you gonna get dressed or not?”

Sighing, Stiles looks down at his toothbrush and curses a string of expletives in his mind.

Of course Scott would use Stiles’ horrible, awful, no good crush on Derek Hale as bait to get him to the festival.

Of course, it’s going to work.

“Gimme twenty minutes. Tell my dad to leave the cloak on my bed,” Stiles says, and he can hear Scott’s triumph. 

“Hell yes. I’ll see you downstairs in twenty. I promise, it’s gonna be fun, Stiles.”

Scott’s footsteps retreat down the hall in a bounding fashion, like the wolf is already romping in the meadow, and Stiles looks at his reflection in the mirror again.

“You fucking weakling,” he grumbles, and then sets to brushing his teeth with much more elbow grease than is really needed.

Stiles creeps into his room and throws on a pair of dark jeans and a white t-shirt. He then opts to pull on a red flannel, purposely avoiding the bundle of red material on his bed. When he has tied his shoes and has messed with his hair so much it couldn’t look any more artfully disheveled, Stiles looks to his bed.

The cloak was his mother’s, a deep scarlet, woolen half-cape with a billowy hood and a fox pelt stitched like a scarf across the shoulders. He touches his fingers to the fur, rustling the scent, and then picks up the cape and shakes it out a bit.

Scott comes bounding up the stairs as Stiles is tying the cloak around his neck by the stained leather strips. “Dude, it’s been twenty—hey…”

Stiles looks up at him, grinning to hide how awkward he feels. “I look like an omega, don’t I?”

Smiling, Scott steps over to him and lightly brushes his fingers through the fox fur. “You look like trouble.”

“My middle name.”

Scott stuffs his hand into his pocket and pulls out a few cords of leather bracelets his mother made from a stag he’d hunted early spring, and Stiles holds his arm out to have them fastened around his wrist. “Alright, they smell kind of like me, so no random idiot is going to just get up on your junk.”

“My hero,” Stiles laughs, fuddling with the braided leather as they go down the stairs.

John’s in his recliner when they pass, and he leans over the back of it, his eyes landing on Stiles. A small, fond smile touches the corners of his mouth, and he says, "You boys don’t have too much fun.”

Stiles holds his arms up. “Come with us, old man. The night is young.”

Frowning, John waves them off, and Stiles stumbles down the drive to Scott’s car.

“Let’s go and party the night off,” Scott says, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“If I have a bad time, I’ll blame you.”

*

Firewolf Field is used for almost all of Beacon Hills’ biggest festivities. The only exceptions are the New Year’s party and the first summer moon, which take place in the grand hall and town square respectfully. The field is named as such for the story of the flaming wolf, so big and wild he cleared down a perfect circle in the thick trees of the woods, scorching an entire crescent of the earth permanently black, while the rest of the moon flourished with wildflowers and grass, a meadow fit for wolf parties.

Stiles didn’t know how much of the story was actually true, seeing as he had never seen a werewolf so big, even shifted, that it could trample trees, nor had he ever seen one on fire. But hey, the lore of their kind had embellishment on tons of things.

In any case, Firewolf Field is a flock of wolves gathered around scattered bonfires in deep stone pits, sitting on long benches of carved fallen trees, and dancing in the flowering grass. There are five white aspen gazebos set up around the area, where a seemingly endless supply of wolfsbane spiked beverages and decadent smoked meats and fruits sit on tables under curled, flowering vines. As they pass one bonfire, Stiles jumps as someone tosses another log onto the flaming tee pee, whose flames rise up higher than Stiles’ head. Sparks scatter up into the sky to the sound of a blowing horn above the drum beat, and a few wolves howl along.

Scott tugs Stiles close and points through the crowd to one bonfire where it’s easy to see that their friends have gathered with a few strangers. “Alright, let’s go.”

Stiles jumps back from a pair of fully shifted wolves romping in the grass, yipping and crying out excitedly as they try to tackle one another. Around him, he sees pairs dancing in sensuous closeness, and there’s lots of nuzzling going on. The air smells like spiced ale and bonfire smoke and the dark of night, and wolf hormones to boot.

The last traces of sunlight are falling through the trees, and the sky swells indigo and jet as the stars ignite. Stiles looks up, the sky spinning as the drum beat shifts, the rhythm that of a stampede.

“You got him to come out and play,” Jackson says snidely as they approach, and Stiles shoots him a glare. He has mink tails draped around his shoulders, his black shirt unbuttoned all the way down the front.

Stiles looks at Allison, Lydia, Kira, Danny, the twins, a few of the lacrosse guys, and then back at Jackson. The whole crowd is great except for him. 

“Play nice, Jackson,” Lydia grumbles, handing him her large glass of what smells like ale. She rights her little antler crown and then hugs Stiles, rubbing her face against his cheek.

He blushes darkly. “_ Lydia! _” He hisses.

“Scott said you were worried about alphas being dicks. My scent is enough to have any other alpha take pause,” Lydia says matter-of-factly, taking her cup back from Jackson. “We’ll protect you, little gem.”

Danny has a berry crown around his head, and despite the early hour he is already downing plenty of the wolfsbane cider, and he smells like cinnamon and expensive cologne when he drapes an arm over Stiles’ shoulder. “We need to get you on my level, Stilinski.”

“I don’t think I wanna be there.”

Allison touches his elbow. “Do you want some cider? Or water?”

Stiles is about to say water when Scott says, “I’ll get him one of everything. There’s something with honey in it, isn’t there?”

“The mead?” Allison asks.

“Ah! The mead,” Danny concludes, and then takes a long gulp of his drink. 

“Scotty,” Stiles starts, and then Scott reaches out and fluffs the foxtail trim of his red cloak. 

“I’m not gonna let you get drunk, but I told you I’m not drinking. I’ll keep an eye on you,” Scott says, and then he’s smiling that stupid Scott smile, so Stiles concedes to a few spiked beverages.

Stiles sways awkwardly to the drumming beat and the humming chants between Kira and the bonfire. The flames are warm against his back, and Kira’s scent—as a kitsune—is a welcome subtlety to the slowly swelling hormones in the air.

Scott bumps into his side and pushes a horn cup into Stiles’ hands. “Just some cider, to start with. Got you an ale, too.”

“If you wanna sit down, we can,” Kira says, the red flowers tangled in her hair brushing Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles nods, and lets himself be led to a fallen tree carved flat along the top. He presses his lips to the rim of the cup and inhales. It smells like cinnamon and apple, the twist of wolfsbane lying underneath the sweetness like a spice. 

_ Might as well _, Stiles figures, and then drinks almost half of the cup in two gulps. He feels the warmth slide down his throat, filling his chest, and the wolfsbane tingles on his tongue.

Danny tips his head back and howls, and more howls follow, and Stiles takes another drink and then joins in.

A few minutes later, Scott hands him the ale, and Stiles drinks it quicker than he means to.

“We’re gonna go dance,” Scott says, tilting his chin towards Allison and Lydia. “Right over there. Okay?”

“I’m gonna sit right here and drink my drink,” Stiles says, then looks down into his cup. “Oh… Empty.”

Scott laughs, slapping him on the back. “I’ll get you another cider. You don’t wanna go dance?”

“Most definitely not, pal.”

“Okay. Be right back.”

Scott does come right back with another cider for Stiles, and then Stiles watches them dance through the flames of the bonfire.

Jackson sets a few more small trees on the flaming pyramid, then walks over to Stiles and kneels in front of him. “Pretty fire.”

“Asshole,” Stiles grumbles.

Jackson grins, then pats Stiles’ knee. “You look like a space cadet. You gonna be okay over here by yourself?”

Stiles takes a look around, and then he realizes their entire group is up dancing to the whine of some kind of string instrument and the pounding drums. “Oh. Huh”

“Me and Lydia are the closest, so if you need anything, feel free to bother Scott instead.” Jackson hesitates before he gets up. “Do you have a rape whistle handy?”

“Oh, just fuck off, I’m not drunk enough to get pulled into the trees by some passing alpha,” Stiles retorts, then takes another drink. “If anybody needs to be watched, it’s Danny.” He points in Danny’s direction, and Jackson follows.

Danny is romping on the ground with two shifted wolves, probably Ethan and Aiden.

Jackson hums. “Yeah, he’s not a good drunk. Moon’s not even peaked yet.”

“Here’s to youth,” Stiles says, then takes a drink.

“Wild and free,” Jackson says, then gives Stiles a shove.

He falls backwards off the log, his legs folding over it as his shoulders hit the grass. He saves his drink. “Fuck you, Jackson!” Stiles yells, but makes no attempt to get up. He looks at the sky, gleaming cloudless but smudged with the smoke of a dozen fires. The grass is cool through Stiles’ cloak, and his head is a little static from the alcohol in his veins.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, maybe long enough for a short nap, but then there’s hair tickling his face, and when he opens his eyes, the moon is nearly peaked, and Erica Reyes is looming over him, hands on her knees.

Her eyes are rimmed in dark coal, lips red, and all of her assets are well accentuated by the subtle furs she’s wearing. “Wakey wakey, hon.”

Stiles lifts a hand and scrubs it down his face. The drums have switched it up again, and in the falling night, he hears more than enough elicit activity occurring beside bonfires or in the bushes along the tree line. “I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself from your wiles at the current time.”

Erika smirks.

“What about my wiles?” A voice says beside her, and Stiles finds himself looking at Isaac as he leans into the space above Stiles as well.

“I think I can manage.”

“Good. Come dance with us,” Erica says, and she takes Stiles’ cup from him and drains the contents. Stiles doesn’t think there was much left, but when Isaac holds a hand out for him, he just takes it and lets himself me yanked to his feet in a surprisingly graceful movement.

Isaac smells like mint and fire, and the rabbit furs draped over his shoulders are silk soft as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist. “You’re not gonna be sick, are you?”

“I’m just buzzed, I promise.” Honestly, Stiles doesn’t even feel like he’s had as much to drink as he has. He can walk a straight line and isn’t slurring, and his head doesn’t feel like shit.

Erica takes Stiles’ hand, thumb brushing the leather bands Scott had fastened there. “Worry not. Nothing untoward shall befall you.”

Stiles squeezes her hand. “Everything about you is untoward… You’re getting me into mischief.”

When Isaac replies, his lips brush Stiles’ ear. “You’ll like this mischief.”

They make it to a bit of clear space near a bonfire, and Erica twirls under Stiles’ arm. He looks out across the huge field, the farthest bonfires blurry, and back by where he had been sitting, Scott and the others are still dancing.

Allison seems to see him first, and she raises her brows and makes an arm motion in his direction. Stiles waves at her, reading the gesture as ‘are you okay?’ and replying with ‘it’s all good’.

When Allison nods and then gets up on her toes to tell Scott something, Stiles realizes the most recent song has ended, and there’s a chorus of howls, cheers, and sporadic clapping. The drums start up again, slower than what Stiles is comfortable with, and he gulps as Erica takes his hands in hers and leads him into her arms.

She’s warm, and she smells clean, despite the smoke and sweat in the air. She rocks against him slowly, carefully, like Stiles might break. Stiles lets their fingers tangle loosely, stepping close, stepping out, and when Erica grins at him and turns away from him, he turns in the opposite direction. He ends up against Isaac’s chest, and Isaac’s fingers splay across his hips over his jeans, noses touching.

Okay, so maybe Stiles is a _ little _ more buzzed than he thinks. He tips his head up to the moon and the stars arc over his head, and his limbs feel light and floaty. The static in his brain is a good feeling, the wolfsbane settled in his blood, dizzying him, making him feel lighter.

Stiles walks his hands up Isaac’s chest, the slow pulse of the drums matching the lazy, comfortable beat of his heart, and he pets the furs around Isaac’s neck. Stiles can feel his body undulating, spine rolling slowly to the rhythm, hips twisting, and he’s pretty sure it might be considered sexy to anybody that wasn’t Erica or Isaac.

Isaac spins him about, hands sliding up Stiles’ arms, bringing them up behind his neck. “Your hair is so fucking soft,” Stiles blurts out.

Isaac nudges his forehead against the back of Stiles’ neck and snorts attractively. “Yours, too.”

Erica is in front of him, hooking her fingers into his belt loops, pulling him forward against her body. It’s no secret to anyone that Erica is the embodiment of feral beauty, and Stiles has never had someone look at him the way she is before. Stiles is a disaster bi, and he’s also never been sandwiched between two of the hottest betas in Beacon Hills before, and he can’t really blame anyone but himself as he lets his eyes fall shut and gets a semi in his jeans. 

They keep dancing like that, drugging Stiles on their scent and their warmth, their closeness, and then Erica murmurs, “Got him.”

Stiles opens his eyes, blinking like a dazed kitten, and Erica presses her cheek to his and whispers in his ear, “Derek’s looking at you.”

Her words instantly lift Stiles’ sobriety by seventy percent, and Stiles returns to his mind like he’s been slapped in the face. All the noise in the field turns to crunchy feedback, and Stiles steps on Isaac’s foot as he falls out of rhythm.

Isaac hugs him close again, supporting Stiles’ weight when he nearly topples over. “Jeez, dork, you’ve been doing fine up until now.”

“Shut up; Derek is not looking over here, and if he is, he’s looking at you guys,” Stiles rambles, and Erica pulls him out by his belt loops, spinning him so when she pushes him back in, he’s facing Isaac as she presses against his back.

“Derek sees us every day, and he _ never _ looks at us like that,” Erica says against Stiles’ neck, and over Isaac’s shoulder he immediately finds Derek Hale through the clustered gathering.

He has his arms crossed over his chest, leaning heavily against one of the gazebos. He’s wearing a black Henley, the leather chords around his neck holding claws or fangs and white tails, and Stiles wonders if his jeans were painted on because _ whew _.

And… Yes. He’s staring, definitely staring, right at them. Stiles makes eye contact for a split second, then ducks his head and pushes his face into Isaac’s chest, hugging his arms around Isaac’s neck tightly.

“Holy shit, no. Nope. No way,” Stiles says breathily. He’s definitely looking at Isaac’s butt, because it’s a great sight, or maybe he had been watching the way Erica was rocking her hips like a trained belly dancer.

Stiles tries to convince himself of any other possible truth, but the reality of it is that he and Derek made _ eye contact _. What could Derek have been looking at, if not Stiles specifically, for that to happen?

Erica’s lips are warm beneath his ear, and Stiles wonders if she’s smudged any lipstick on him. “He thinks you’re so cute, you know. He’s like a little puppy.”

Stiles picks his head up, huffing as his face blushes hot, and not because of the alcohol. “Yeah, everyone thinks I’m cute. I’m an omega. It’s just instinct.”

“It’s not instinct, don’t be so pretentious,” Isaac says. “Derek thinks you’re cute, period. No omega/alpha bullshit.”

It’s a little awkward, but Isaac gets Stiles dancing again, gets him back to that slow rhythm that has them rolling against each other like they should be naked. He even gets Stiles to put a little space between them, and then Isaac turns a bit and rests his chin on Stiles’ shoulder, forcing Stiles to tilt his head in Derek’s direction. 

Stiles closes his eyes.

“He talks about you all the time. Can’t shut up about it,” Isaac adds.

“Shut up,” Stiles says breathlessly.

“He does,” Erica says. “Pretty adorable, actually.”

“Oh yeah? What does he say?”

Erica hums before she replies. “He says your hair is stupid. And that you’re clumsy cause your legs are too long. And that your skin is too pale.”

“White,” Isaac corrects.

“And that you should never wear red because it’s an alpha’s color.”

“And that your omega smell is barely tolerable.”

Stiles sulks, letting Erica take his hand. She twirls him out, and then twists him back into Isaac’s chest, who spins him out in the same fashion. “Wow… I feel so great. The desire, the want—I am a real gem.”

Erika’s laughter peels, and Isaac touches his cheek to Stiles’ temple. “He _ likes _ you, stupid. Derek never insults the rest of us.”

“Huh?”

“He likes your hair. He thinks it’s cute. Your legs are too long—he’d like them wrapped around his waist. And he says you’re too white because he thinks your skin would look pretty covered in his marks,” Erica says.

Stiles’ stomach flops.

Isaac lets Stiles push him out, their fingertips barely touching as Isaac looks up at the moon, smirking. “But red? Yeah, that _ is _ an alpha color. And he thinks you look good in it. Really, really good.”

There’s a knot in Stiles’ stomach, and he’s having trouble breathing. He looks back over at Derek, who now has Boyd leaning against the gazebo beside him.

The alpha is most definitely looking right at him, and this time, when Stiles meets his eyes, he’s too starstruck to look away.

Derek’s chest heaves, like he’s inhaling hard, and Stiles’ mouth falls open, but he doesn’t say anything because maybe this isn’t a prank. Maybe it’s real.

Then Stiles pops his own bubble, and he drops back to reality like the zero gravity has suddenly been turned off.

“Guys, don’t fuck around like that. I know it’s painfully obvious I have an embarrassing crush on Derek, but he hasn’t seemed to notice, and if we can keep it that way, that’s fine. Not to sound like a fuckin’ baby, but it’s not nice,” Stiles says, dropping his eyes to the ground as he makes an attempt to pull free of Isaac’s hold.

Isaac grabs his wrists, and Erica hangs around his waist and nuzzles into his neck. “Stiles, we aren’t being mean. We aren’t messing with you, I promise. Derek is still watching your sexy omega-ness get passed between us, and I guarantee you by that dumb look on his face, he’s going to come over here and take you any second.”

Isaac presses his temple against Stiles’, pulling Stiles’ arms around his waist. “We spend enough time with him to know. He’s all twitter-pated for you.” He slides his arms around Stiles’ shoulders as Erica nestles her nose against Stiles’ hair.

“Guys, seriously, you can’t expect me to believe any of what you’re saying. He’s _ Derek Hale. _”

Stiles runs through all the reasons why Derek is unattainable to someone of his status in his head. He’s an alpha, the son of a True Alpha, for starters. He’s six or seven years older, the most gorgeous member of the Hale pack, not to mention the most beautiful person in Beacon Hills. Him being older means he probably wants a mate more mature than Stiles so he doesn’t feel like he’s babysitting. Him being more beautiful means he _ definitely _ wants a mate that is at least an eight. Stiles can admit he’s like a strong six, in his opinion.

“Stiles? You’re zoning out,” Erica says, and Stiles realizes he’s being spun about again so he can lean back against Isaac’s chest, Erica’s back against his front. “Breathe,” she instructs, and Stiles drops his head back, positive it’s the inebriation that’s making him feel so secure between them. He’s kind of baring his neck to Isaac, but the beta behind him just keeps them rocking to the music, howls rising in the smoky air.

“I text Scott and told him I’d make sure Derek was here. Derek only agreed to come with us when I said you’d be here,” Isaac says, thumbs rubbing circles at the small of Stiles’ back. “You two need to work your shit out. What better way than with a little inebriated make-out session with bonfires and fur? It’s all very primal.”

Stiles wriggles back against him, then pushes his head into the back of Erica’s neck. “This is a very elaborate prank. You and Scott just… got in cahoots to hook me and Derek up?”

Erica lifts a hand and rakes her nails from the nape of Stiles’ neck up into his hair, a motion that makes his knees weak like a cat being scratched just right. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Scott hates Derek, so… kind of,” Stiles says.

“Scott doesn’t _ hate _ Derek, he just doesn’t like him. But he did admit to me that he thinks Derek is a good alpha, and a pretty decent guy, so when I told him about Derek’s crush on you—“Isaac is cut off by Stiles’ head nearly butting into his nose.

“Don’t say that! That’s not even a real thing!!”

Erica turns on him, growling, her eyes blazing the brilliant yellow of a wild wolf, an agitated beta. “Wanna bet?” And then Isaac’s warmth is gone from his back, and Erica is spinning Stiles, hard.

He stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and then Stiles almost nosedives right into Derek Hale’s chest. He’s at an awkward tilt, and Derek’s arms are around his waist before either of them seem to really think about it.

The only thing that makes it feel less embarrassing for Stiles is the look on Derek’s face, like he’s just as surprised to have Stiles suddenly flung into his arms.

There’s a giggle over his shoulder, and Stiles watches Derek’s head jerk up, a growl in his throat.

Stiles looks over his shoulder at Erica and Isaac, who are hanging onto each other like lifelines as they laugh, backing up. “Oops,” Erica says.

“Our bad, Derek,” Isaac says, nearly falling over a wolf lying on its back in the grass. “Looks like he’s all yours now.”

Derek growls deeper, a sound that has Stiles’ hands fisting in his shirt, and then Erica and Isaac take off across the field, howling as they circle a bonfire. A large, dark wolf starts romping around them, and Stiles can tell by his bear-like, rounder ears that it’s Boyd.

Stiles exhales slowly, his heart beating so loud he can barely hear the drums fading over the rush of blood in his head. There’s another brief moment of howling and clapping, a sharp crackle of bonfires having spice tossed onto them to scent the air with honey and clove.

The warmth of Derek’s arms around him is still very much real when the next song starts with a long, deep bellow of a didgeridoo, and then the drums follow at a beat as wild and thunderous as Stiles’ own heart.

He looks up, hands still gripping Derek’s shirt, and Stiles never realized just how close in height they were. He always thought Derek was a terrifying, imposing figure, but their noses almost touch with Stiles’ head tilted up as it is.

Derek looks down at him, the firelight making his skin glow bronze and rose, the gold flecks in his emerald eyes reflecting each lick of the flames beside them. Derek opens his mouth, his hands flexing on the small of Stiles’ back.

Stiles releases his shirt, still feeling fuzzy and light despite the sudden embarrassing turn of events, and maybe it’s his inability to think very clearly that keeps his hands laid flat over Derek’s chest. He stands upright, taking a small step back from Derek. Stiles is about to apologize and crawl back to Scott in shame when Derek’s arms loosen around him, then there are broad hands settling on his hips, holding him still.

Derek releases him, squaring his jaw as he puts a step between them. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, dark, fierce, like determination. Derek’s brows furrow tight, and he tilts his head down, the tiniest little bow, and holds one hand out for Stiles.

Stiles inhales sharply, one hand flinching instinctively, like Derek’s is the other charge of a magnet.

After half the shit that has happened tonight, Stiles can’t believe what he’s seeing.

It’s an invitation. Derek is offering Stiles a dance, and probably nothing more, but that look in his eyes, pleading in the firelight, makes Stiles think it’s not just the dance Derek is asking for.

His hand twitches again, and Stiles ducks his head low, the grass blurring and sparkling as his blood rushes. He reaches out in return, and very softly, Derek’s fingers brush his, feather light, and the heat of the contact between them rushes Stiles’ breath from his chest.

A new beat echoes in the drums, one that mimics Stiles’ own pounding heart, and he lets Derek lead him to a space beside a bonfire.

The flames light up Derek’s skin and warm the shivers on his own arms. Derek pulls him in close, and Stiles lets himself be tugged into the space of those broad, heavy arms. A soft rumble in Derek’s chest is answered in Stiles, and he traces his hands down Derek’s chest before stepping back.

Derek steps closer, and Stiles, almost by instinct, bares his throat at the same moment he spins away. Derek catches his hand, and Stiles sees the flame light up in Derek’s eyes that has nothing to do with the bonfire beside them. The corner of Derek’s mouth curls up, slowly, and Stiles can hear him growl as if it fills the space between them.

Wolves dance and howl and shift and play fight around them, but Stiles’ entire world narrows down to Derek’s eyes on him, their hands touching, and the invitation Stiles has suddenly offered him.

The motion is so wolf-like, completely bypassing the human standards of their kind and going straight for the primal, animal instinct, and Stiles and Derek both seem to know it.

Stiles is an omega, and he wants his alpha to chase him. More than that, he wants his alpha to _ catch _ him. Derek seems more than up for the challenge, giving Stiles’ fingers a light squeeze.

Stiles grins back.

The drums beat hard under their feet, filling the air, and the howls and rhythmic calls that cloud up into the smoky sky egg Stiles on.

He touches the tips of his fingers to Derek’s waist, walks a slow circle around him, and when Derek moves to grab him, he spins on his toes and only lets Derek grab his wrist because he wants those warm hands on him. But Derek gently releases Stiles’ wrist in favor of touching their fingertips together, the space between then charging like lightning in clouds. The drums pulse under Stiles’ skin, howls and vocalized melodies raising the hair on his arms as he and Derek walk small circles around each other, fingers barely touching.

When Derek takes his wrist again, Stiles twists his hand over and catches Derek’s, the motion locking them together.

Derek pulls him in close, a hand palming down the curve of Stiles’ back. Stiles scrapes his nails over Derek’s neck, breath ghosting across his jaw, and when Derek turns, as if to kiss him, Stiles spins away again, dancing circles around Derek as the alpha tries valiantly to catch his wrist again.

Finally, Derek snags him by a belt loop, and Stiles can’t help the peel of excited laughter that breaks from his chest. He turns into Derek’s arms, lets Derek set claws on the back of his neck and drags his lips across Derek’s jaw again.

He arches his neck, offering it to Derek, who starts walking circles around him, slow, predatory. When Derek leans against Stiles to smell his neck, Stiles snaps at him, a playful click of teeth just before Derek’s face.

Derek’s eyes flash red, and the smile that curls up the corner of his mouth makes Stiles wish he knew what the hell he’s doing.

Their wrists brush, and Stiles walks a slow, surprisingly steady circle around Derek, whose eyes never leave his. Stiles has never felt like this before. It’s like a challenge, and against an alpha, but it’s like an offering. Derek doesn’t seem threatened by Stiles’ unbroken eye contact, and under Derek’s smoldering gaze, Stiles feels like he’s on fire.

Something inside of Stiles knows what it’s doing. He feels the edge of the shift crawl across his skin, like he’s ready to split from his human form and sprawl his furred, fanged body across Derek. But the message is well received, even without paws and a tail.

Derek’s chest vibrates under Stiles’ hands when he runs them over the hard muscle beneath the thin material, and Stiles closes his eyes and slowly sinks down to his knees. His hands grab Derek’s hips without shaking, and he nuzzles his face into Derek’s abdomen, then ducks his head lower and drags his cheek against Derek’s thigh. He can feel his heart in his throat, looking up at Derek through the fringe of his lashes.

Derek’s hand _ does _ shake when he reaches down, curling fingers through Stiles’ hair, his eyes soft and warm ruby. When he curls his nails against the back of Stiles’ neck, Stiles lets himself be slowly pulled back to his feet, dragging his hands over every bit of Derek he can touch.

Derek’s hand on the back of his neck tightens, and Stiles sighs at the tiny little scratch of claws on his skin. 

He knows what it is, recognizes it for something most Alphas don’t seek; it’s a request for permission. 

Derek Hale is the True Alpha’s son. He could have anything he wanted, from anyone. And Stiles is a small, weak, not particularly gorgeous omega several years younger than Derek, softened by the cider and the moon.

But here Derek is, asking for Stiles’ consent, his desire returned, his offering of what Derek wants.

And oh, Stiles lets his head fall back, bares his throat to Derek for his gaze, his lips, teeth, or claws. Whatever Derek wants, Stiles arches his neck for it, and he shivers and runs his hands up Derek’s chest to grip his shoulders.

A rush of heat floods him as the hand on his hip grips him and pulls him closer, and Stiles drags his nails over Derek’s shoulders, clawing at his shirt. He’s dizzy, thoughtless to everything but the heat of fire within him and beside him, knowing nothing but Derek desiring him right then.

Derek leans in, breathing hot and damp against Stiles’ pulse. He drags in a deep, slow breath, following the hollow of Stiles’ throat up beneath the curve of his jaw, the shell of his ear. His stubble is a soft scratch on Stiles’ skin, sending shivers down Stiles’ back as Stiles’ mouth falls open on a breathless sound.

A growl that sounds closer to a purr rumbles out of Derek’s chest, and then he drags his rough cheek down against Stiles’ throat. His stubble and hot breath has Stiles’ stomach flaring with heat, and he feels his legs buckle involuntarily.

Scented. He’s been scented by an Alpha.

Stiles shudders, let’s Derek's hand move from his hip to the small of his back, arm circling him and hauling him closer as Derek buries fingers in his hair and tugs. Stiles opens his eyes, chest alight with the hammering of his heart.

The moon is a burning yellow-white above, the clouds nearby a milk spill in the glow, and Stiles’ breath catches in his chest when Derek drags his tongue, hot, wet, rough, from his clavicle to Stiles’ cheek.

Even in the Alpha’s grip, Stiles turns his head, whining, his own tongue wetting his lips as he chases Derek’s mouth. Derek growls, a low, deep noise, and he presses his cheek against Stiles’. 

Stiles tilts his chin up and licks Derek’s rough cheek, which earns him a snarl, and then Derek is pulling back, holding Stiles still with a hand in his hair and an arm around his waist. His eyes are burning ruby and garnet, and Stiles’ own eyes flash pale amber.

He may be an omega, but he’s buzzed and warm, high on the feeling of being in an Alpha’s arms, so Stiles gets on his toes, pushing forward, and presses his forehead to Derek’s. 

It takes him a moment to unscramble his brain, to settle his nerves just enough, but Stiles touches his lips to Derek’s, so lightly, and says, “Derek, please.” His tongue flicks out, gentle, quick, and he licks the corner of Derek’s open mouth.

Then Derek is sighing against Stiles’ mouth, pressing their lips together as he pulls Stiles closer.

Stiles’ hands move from Derek’s shoulders up his neck, fingers digging into his hair and tugging. His heart is pounding, and when he parts his lips to catch his breath, Derek licks into his mouth eagerly. Derek’s tongue is hot, and he tastes like ale and spice.

If Stiles only ever had this one kiss for the rest of his life, it would be enough. It makes him feel starved, feral, and yet the warmth that seeps through him steadies and grounds him. Derek ravages his mouth with single-minded focus, his tongue sure and hot as he licks across Stiles’, his hands heavy. He holds Stiles with an unbreakable strength that also feels tender, and Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth, fists a hand in his shirt and the other in his hair.

Derek seems to like being held back, growling into Stiles’ lips before nipping them, sucking on them, and he licks Stiles’ mouth sore before delving his tongue back between his teeth.

Stiles feels lighter than air, hotter than flame, and Derek’s hand at his neck squeezes, the other bruising the small of his back as Derek deepens the kiss. Stiles’ claws rake lightly over Derek’s shoulders, maybe cutting fabric but not skin, and he moans dizzily as he feels his cock give a little twitch in his pants.

Finally, Derek halts, panting against Stiles’ cheek, and the taste of Stiles’ arousal paints his tongue like honey.

Embarrassed and burning, Stiles twists away, whimpering as the wetness between his cheeks makes the motion feel dirty and slick. Derek grabs his hips, pulling Stiles’ ass back against his groin, pushing his nose into the curve of Stiles’ neck.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, his voice rough and low, fangs wet along Stiles’ bare neck. “Don’t… Don’t.”

Stiles squirms, his body tingling and itching, and he feels Derek’s own hardness up against the curve of his ass. It feels so good, hot through the denim and heavy when Stiles rolls his hips back against it, and he exhales loudly at the taste of Derek wanting him. The air is cider and smoke, and then Derek; musk, sweat, pine, pre-cum, the burning ambrosia of arousal and hunger.

The night has burnt down to this moment, where Stiles can make or break every second that has lead them here. He could turn, he could shift, he could walk straight home, he could lie down and show his belly in embarrassment and defeat.

But he’s been dancing along a very thin line, a thread just between him and Derek. It’s time to break it.

Derek buries his face into the fox fur, breathing deep, slow, growling as his hands press bruises into Stiles’ hips. Stiles takes a deep breath, reaches up and snaps the clasp of his cape, then takes off at full speed.

He looks over his shoulder as he runs towards the next bonfire, and Derek snarls, grinning, and then he’s after Stiles like a beast.

When a few wolves realize what’s happening, they cheer and howl, and when Stiles leaps over a log bench between two other wolves, he thinks he hears Lydia yell, “Make him work for it, Stiles!”

His heart is hammering as he weaves around tangled limbs and bonfire wood, the drums like the wild heart of a rabbit in chase. Stiles thinks absently he should feel like prey, with an alpha hot on his heels, the moon glowing brighter than the flames he darts past. But he just burns and feels awake and alive and _ desired _, and he almost shifts out of his skin with excitement.

He’s running to the far end of the field when he thinks about darting into the trees, just to make Derek _ really _ work for it, when Derek tackles him into the grass.

They go rolling, limbs flailing, growling and laughing, and Stiles lands on his back with Derek on top of him. He’s pinned under the alpha’s weight, clover flowers in his hair, his shirt yanked up to expose his entire belly.

Stiles is panting, his limbs screaming for him to get back to his feet and _ flee _, but then Derek is propping himself up over him, hands on Stiles’ forearms. He has Stiles cloak draped awkwardly over his head and shoulders like a blanket, his breath huffing warm and damp across Stiles’ face as he looks down at him.

It’s quiet for a moment, the wind tangling fingers through the trees, and Stiles realizes they’ve made it about a yard past the last bonfire, the flames crackling and bright.

They’re at the edge of Firewolf Field, and they are somehow very much alone.

In the distance, there’s cheering and howling, most likely alphas celebrating Derek’s spectacular tackle. The drums don’t sound as loud, the cacophony of voices and laughter incoherent.

All there is is Derek’s palms on his pulse, Derek’s knee between his thighs, Derek’s eyes catching the nearby fire’s glow, and Stiles feels all the fight bleed out of his body like spilled honey. It’s sticky and sweet, gluing him down under Derek’s body, and he sighs breathlessly and turns his face to the side to breathe in the dew-scent of the grass.

His alpha caught him.

Derek releases one of Stiles’ wrists, his fingers touching lightly to Stiles’ cheek. Stiles blinks up at him, reaching out with his free hand to pull his cloak off of Derek’s shoulders. It leaves his hair sticking up awkwardly here and there, and Stiles sets his cloak beside them and cards one hand through Derek’s hair.

Stiles can’t tell if it’s the drums he hears or his own heart. The way Derek purrs and rolls his head into his touch makes Stiles feel like he could roll the alpha over and bite his belly without fear. Instead, Stiles rakes his nails down the nape of Derek’s neck, and then hitches his knee up over Derek’s hip.

Derek’s eyes flash, a soft, muted ruby, like he’s holding back or holding something in, and Stiles pulls him carefully closer. Derek has never looked more gorgeous, soaked in moonlight and shadow, his lips swollen and red from kissing, his eyes only on Stiles.

The hand on his cheek goes into the grass, and Stiles can hear blades ripping beside his ear. Derek’s other hand tenses around his wrist, the pressure making his fingers curl numbly.

Tilting his head up, Stiles bumps his nose along Derek’s cheek, fingers tangling through Derek’s hair loosely. Derek puts enough space between them that their eyes meet again, and Stiles nods. It’s hardly a request, or an answer, or anything at all, but Stiles nods, and Derek’s eyes glow garnet, and then he’s kissing Stiles so deeply Stiles’ feels like he’ll sink through the grass and leave the shape of himself in the earth.

The excitement and thrill of the chase had dulled slightly in the quiet heartbeats between them, and now the feeling between them is molten caramel and distant thunderclouds. It’s warm, sweet, and has the potential to be fierce at a moment’s notice.

Derek nudges Stiles’ knees open and settles between his thighs, giving a long, slow thrust that presses his hardness over Stiles’.

Stiles breaks the kiss to gasp, and the flavor of the air has changed so drastically his mouth waters. What was ozone and bonfire and Derek’s musk is now Derek’s sweat, Derek’s arousal, his want; the smoked, cloying, heady scent of it is thick like wax across Stiles’ tongue. He arches his back, pressing himself up against Derek, and moans.

Derek groans, sliding both of Stiles’ arms up over his head, tangling grass between their entwined fingers as he pushes his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck and breathes. The sound of it isn’t human, a deep, rough tremble, and Stiles gets his legs around Derek’s waist and pulls them flush together again.

He’s legally sober by now, he’s sure, but his head is still swimming in sparks and dizzying light, and his entire body feels like it’s shaking. He closes his eyes, trying to realign his center of gravity. It feels like every atom of him is trembling into a new place, rearranging around Derek’s touch.

Derek licks wetly up the side of his throat, still rolling their hips together slow and rough, and Stiles cranes his neck, begging for more and for the heat to stop at the same time. “Stiles,” Derek says, voice soft and broken as he squeezes Stiles’ hands in his.

Stiles’ eyes open, and the moon and stars come into full focus like Stiles has never seen them. It feels easier to breathe, easier to just _ be _, because Stiles has never heard anyone say his name like that before. He whines in his throat, turning his face so he can nuzzle at Derek as best as he can.

He squeezes Derek’s hands tightly, and he hugs Derek’s hips with his knees. “Please,” Stiles murmurs. His desire, his need has been building so slowly through the night, Stiles finally feels it twisting up inside of him. Under Derek’s weight, with Derek rutting against him, Stiles feels how hard he is, how wet he is.

Knowing Derek can smell it, can probably _ taste _ it in the air around them makes Stiles squirm. There’s no denying it when he can smell it himself, no point trying to downplay just how fucking much he wants this, needs this.

Swallowing hard, Stiles rocks up to meet Derek’s next thrust, and he gasps again, “Please, I need.” It’s an unfinished sentence, and yet a complete statement, one that Derek seems to understand with absolutely no problem.

He growls into Stiles’ neck, kneeling between Stiles’ thighs with minimal effort, despite how tightly Stiles is trying to cling to him.

Stiles nods again. Derek’s eyes are still burning bright, and Stiles holds his gaze again, stands his ground as if Derek were snarling and snapping at him. It’s a challenge, one he knows Derek can’t refuse. It’s a taunt; _ you caught me. Claim me. _

Softly, Stiles says, “Please… Derek, I need you.” His chest and throat flush hotly, and he knows Derek can see the blood rise in his face, can smell and feel Stiles’ body crying out for him. Those words in that order seem to be everything for Derek, all the go-ahead he needs.

The long, low groan that rattles out of Derek’s ribs almost makes Stiles come in his pants, and then Derek lets go of his wrists in favor of cupping Stiles’ face between his hands as he kisses him.

Stiles licks across Derek’s tongue, moaning into his mouth without reserve, getting his hands into Derek’s hair, pulling his shirt up over the smooth muscles of his back. Stiles feels like burning, his hands palming over Derek’s bare skin, nails scraping at the small of his back, hating Derek’s jeans like he’s never hated jeans before.

“Stiles, I want—“Derek huffs against his mouth, the longest sentence he’s said to Stiles all night.

Stiles presses his hands over Derek’s on his face, keeping him close. “Anything. _ Everything _.”

“I want you,” Derek says, then kisses him again. He kisses Stiles’ cheek, his jaw, his temple, grumbling and whining the whole time. “I’ve wanted you so bad.”

Now _ that _ sentence is the longest Derek’s said all night, and Stiles drops his head back against the grass and makes a pathetic, needy whine. “I’m yours, Derek. _ Yours _ ,” Stiles chokes out, and then bites his lip before he can say _ I’ve _ ** _been_ ** _ yours _.

“You haven’t… you aren’t mated. You aren’t claimed,” Derek says, then glances quickly at the leather bands tied around Stiles’ wrist.

“A precaution… For my own safety. I’m not mated, I’m not claimed; I swear.”

“Then it’s true. Your scent,” Derek says, looming over Stiles, sniffing down his chest. His shirt is still ridden up, and Derek licks the skin just above his naval, right before the soft hair that vanishes beneath his zipper. “Pure omega… _ virgin _ omega wolf.”

Stiles’ entire stomach quivers erratically, and he digs his nails into Derek’s shoulders and then yanks at his shirt. “I mean, those are such strong words.”

Derek scoots even lower, Stiles’ hands pulling and pulling, and then Derek slips out of his shirt. The material falls over Stiles’ face, and he gets a mouthful/lungful of Derek’s scent, the cologne he wears, the sweat absorbed into the cotton, his alpha musk.

Stiles paws the shirt off his face, and then hugs it tightly to his chest as Derek’s hot breath whuffs across his crotch. 

“But it’s not untrue… you’ve never had a lover—beta, alpha, or otherwise. You’re untouched.” Derek presses his face against the inside of Stiles’ spread thigh, and then he laves his tongue across, Stiles realizes embarrassingly, a wet spot that has soaked through his boxers and jeans.

“I… I-I wou-wouldn’t be untouched if… if you’d _ touch me _,” Stiles whimpers, aiming for stern and demanding, because some alphas like their omegas feisty. But he just sounds like melted butter.

“You should be treated tenderly; taken care of. Should bed you down in a warm nest, kiss and touch and mark you, make you wetter than you’ve ever been before I knot you full.” Derek’s hands run up Stiles’ sides, pushing his shirt up higher, and then the calloused pads of his thumbs rub over Stiles’ nipples. They pearl up almost instantly, desperate for the attention. 

Stiles gets some of Derek’s shirt between his teeth and bites down, muffling the horribly needy sound he makes.

“I’d keep you in my den for days, keeping you full until you were content.” Derek’s stubble scratches over Stiles’ abdomen, and when he pinches Stiles’ nipples in unison Stiles’ back arches up off the ground and his claws make a few holes in Derek’s once beautiful black Henley. “I’d take such good care of you, Stiles. I’ve always wanted that.”

Stiles whimpers, and he drops the now very wet bit of Derek’s shirt out of his mouth and blinks his bleary eyes up at the stars. “Take me, Derek. Take me, please—fuck.”

“Stiles—“

“I want it, I want it. I do, please—I don’t care where we are, I just need you. Please, Alpha.” Stiles tosses Derek’s shirt to the side with his cloak, sitting up so he can tangle his fingers into Derek’s hair and kiss him, open-mouthed, wet, breathless.

Derek groans into the kiss, cupping Stiles’ face in both of his hands. When Stiles nips his bottom lip, Derek growls, and his eyes glow ember red when he sits back, one hand neatly curled against Stiles’ throat. He holds Stiles very still, breathing heavy and shallow. “I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you right here because you asked for it so pretty—but I won’t knot you, and I won’t claim you.”

Stiles feels the words like a cold splash, and he almost feels like rolling into the bonfire beside them before Derek dips forward and licks his parted lips.

“I’ll save that for my bed, where I can take my time, the way I want to.” Sighing, Derek releases Stiles in favor of grabbing hold of the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “You get what you want, then I get what I want. I’ll fuck you in the dirt under the Hunter’s Moon like an alpha, just like you’re begging for it.”

Stiles shudders, letting Derek pull his shirt off. He lays back against the grass, the cool blades raising shivers across his skin. “Yes,” he gasps, eyes falling shut as Derek unbuttons and unzips his pants, very, very slowly.

“Then I’ll take you home. Get you in my bed and take you apart so slow. You’ll be crying for it by the time I knot you,” Derek growls, his claws riding down Stiles’ hipbones as he pulls the tight fabric of his jeans down.

“_ Yes _,” Stiles pleads, and Derek licks his right nipple, then his left, then down his abdomen until he’s sucking on the head of Stiles’ half-released cock. Stiles keens loudly, blood flowing south in a dizzying rush.

Derek yanks his jeans down around his knees, taking Stiles’ cock to the back of his throat with little effort. His broad palms run over Stiles’ thighs, kneading, nails dragging softly, and he squeezes at Stiles’ soft little ass as he slurps up the wetness dripping from Stiles’ cock. His fingers dip into the crease between Stiles’ cheeks, and the slippery fluid dripping there coats Derek’s fingers.

He growls, pleased, and rubs three fingers over Stiles’ wet perineum. 

Stiles gets his hands in Derek’s hair, not holding him or forcing him to move, but rather to anchor Stiles in his own pleasure as Derek’s tongue rubs slow and rough against his glands over and over again. He’s never had a mouth on his cock before, and Stiles is afraid if he comes before Derek gets inside him he won’t fuck him at all.

“Please. Please, get inside me,” Stiles says, pushing his feet against the ground, lifting his hips against Derek’s face.

Groaning, Derek backs off, the warm air of the bonfire on Stiles’ dripping cock sending curls of pleasure through his gut. Derek tugs off Stiles’ pants the rest of the way, his shoes discarded in the process. He curls his toes in the cool grass and spreads his thighs, watching Derek kneel up to unbuckle his belt with one hand. The other runs down Stiles inner thigh, spreading his legs even wider.

Derek’s knuckles brush over Stiles’ soft sac, rubbing against his perineum before his fingertip grazes Stiles’ hole.

The noise Stiles’ makes should embarrass him, but Derek’s vibrant ruby eyes quickly replace the heat from shame with a burn of pleasure.

“You’re so _ wet _ ,” Derek says, tongue practically lolling out of his mouth as he rubs his fingers through Stiles’ slick. And Stiles doesn’t have time to even _ consider _ being embarrassed about how drenched he is before Derek stuffs two fingers inside him to the second knuckle.

Stiles cries out, his hole fluttering and squeezing around the sudden intrusion. He’s fingered himself before plenty of times, and he has a very small, very discreet vibrator for special occasions. But Derek’s fingers are hot and thick, twisting and stretching Stiles inside.

A fresh gush of slick leaks out of Stiles, and he whines as Derek pulls his fingers out and then thrusts them back in.

“Are you so wet just for me?”

“_ Yes,” _Stiles says, not feeling the need to resist.

“So warm inside. All slick and soft for me; you’re so good, Stiles. You’ll take my knot just fine, won’t you?”

Stiles keens in his throat. He’s had a total of four conversations with Derek in his life, and none of them were nearly so fucking filthy. He didn’t even know Derek could _ say _these kinds of things!

“You’re not this wet just because you’re untouched. You’re all for me; _ mine. _My beautiful boy, all messy for my cock.”

“Yes, Derek, fuck.” _ Fuck _, Stiles can’t breathe.

Derek’s rough, scissoring his fingers and twisting them at the same time, pushing deeper than Stiles has ever had anything inside of him. Every motion makes Stiles wetter, and soon his thighs are slippery, the entire crack of his ass dripping, and he bets Derek’s hand is very well soaked.

Derek pulls his fingers free, and Stiles feels his hole clench down on the sudden emptiness, his stomach tumbling. He whimpers, cock twitching desperately against his belly, and when he lifts his head up and looks at Derek kneeling between his thighs the sight is almost enough to make him come on the spot.

Derek got his dick out while he was distracting Stiles with his fingers, and he’s using Stiles’ mess to slick up his cock. It’s big… It’s so _ big _, and Stiles has seen alpha porn before, but fucking hell, Derek’s is better than any cock Stiles has ever seen. The head is dark and flushed when it peeks out of Derek’s fist, the length of it so much Stiles would have to use both hands just to cover it. The hair at the base is dark and soft looking, Derek’s jeans pushed down around his thighs.

The hair _ there _ makes Stiles’ mouth water, and he follows the line of Derek’s hard, gorgeous body back to his eyes.

That soft, red mouth is open, breath ragged and slow as Derek works his cock. He’s looking at Stiles and only Stiles, and the effects of being the center of an alpha’s attention have Stiles’ head swimming.

Feeling bold, and maybe a bit desperate, Stiles grabs under his knees and pulls his legs up, holding himself open and bare for his alpha’s attentions.

Derek snarls, the traces of a shift flickering across his face before he bows down over Stiles and kisses him. Stiles is careful of the fangs in the alpha’s mouth, longer and thicker than his own but just as sharp. “Hold onto me,” Derek says, batting one of Stiles’ hands away, replacing it with his own.

Stiles’ hands go to Derek’s shoulder and bicep, nails biting the skin lightly as Derek uses his other hand to line up his cock. The first touch of the blunt head against his hole has Stiles squirming, the heat and size of it drawing all thought from his mind.

Derek’s hand under his knee flexes, his thumb pressing into the muscle just a bit harder. Stiles looks up at him, his own hands shaking where he holds onto Derek with all his might. Derek covers him like a wave, his mouth soft and warm on Stiles’ mouth as he breaches him and then keeps pushing, in, in, in.

The breath is forced out of Stiles in a loud, winded cry, his body alight with heat and white sparks. Derek’s skin breaks under his nails, but the alpha doesn’t growl or flinch away, just keeps kissing Stiles’ jaw, the corner of his mouth, his cheek.

Stiles feels like he’s about to shatter, the pressure, the heat, being so, _ so _ full almost too much to bear. A tear runs down his temple into his hair, the back of his neck sweaty and hot, and he releases Derek momentarily in order to get his arms and legs tighter around him, crushing the alpha down against him.

“I’m here. I’m right here. You feel so good, Stiles,” Derek says against his temple, voice soft and steady despite the way his muscles quiver under Stiles’ palms. “So tight. Knew you’d feel just like this—you’re perfect.”

Derek is holding back, his concern for Stiles and his desire to care for him effectively holding his instincts by the throat.

Getting a hand into Derek’s hair, Stiles shifts his hips a bit, feeling the way Derek’s cock moves inside of him. He’s fully sheathed, every single inch hot and pulsing inside of Stiles’ sopping hole. Stiles licks Derek’s cheek, breath short as he tries to speak. “You feel _ better _.”

The rumbling purr Derek gives in reply makes Stiles shudder. He moves his hands, bracing one in the grass beside Stiles’ ribs, the other raking through Stiles’ hair before cupping the back of his neck. The gentle press of claws nearly makes Stiles go limp in submission, but he wants to hang onto Derek more than his wolf wants to surrender.

“Please…” Stiles claws lightly at Derek’s back, feeling the raised edges of his triskele tattoo. “You can be gentle later.”

Derek groans. “It’s hard… holding back.”

“Then don’t,” Stiles says, and he kisses Derek’s temple, his shoulder. He digs one heel into the firm muscle beneath the curve of Derek’s ass and nudges him forward, his body tingling. “We can take our time later—like you said. When you make me a nest and knot me up. When you mark me with your claim.”

The whine Derek makes sounds like a badly wounded pup.

“Right now, just give in. Just feel the moon and take me, Alpha. Fuck me. You chased me, you caught me, now fuck me hard like I know you want to.” Stiles almost blushes at his own forward comments, but something in Derek is waking up that part of him that makes omegas so powerful. That allure that, despite their size or lack of dominance, makes them fierce and desirable. That seductive prowess that all omegas have that makes them wily and tempting.

Derek growls, and his hips thrust hard into Stiles’.

Stiles feels the shock of the thrust, the power and fire, burn through his gut, up his spine. His body trembles around Derek’s cock. “_ Yeah _,” he manages, licking his lips. “Like that, Derek. Make me feel my Alpha taking what’s his; make me whine so loud everybody can hear me getting fucked.”

“You can’t just—_ fuck, _” Derek chokes. He rests his elbows beside Stiles’ shoulders, knees pushing Stiles’ hips up to a different angle, and when he fucks in again Stiles does whine pretty loud. 

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles huffs, grinning.

Derek thrusts again, and again, and soon his rhythm has Stiles’ mouth falling open, his hands sliding down the hard, smooth ridges of Derek’s back to grip at his ass. “Fine. You want me to fuck you, baby? Want everyone to hear you getting fucked by your alpha for the first time? You know how badly everyone wanted this? How they talk about you, my pretty omega?”

“Derek, gods.”

“But you’re mine. You’re mine; no one else would have been good enough to fuck you. And when I mate you, once you’re wearing my mark, if anyone fucking _ looks _ at you wrong, I’ll tear their fucking throats out.”

Stiles’ nails nearly break the skin of Derek’s ass. Something about Derek promising violence for him—well, it stirs the primal beast inside. If someone had told Stiles that morning that he would have his hands on Derek Hale’s perfect ass, he would have drowned them in his corn flakes.

Derek fucks into him hard and steady, each thrust filling Stiles to the hilt of Derek’s cock, soft, aching moans falling from his lips. He holds onto Derek with his knees and hands, thighs trembling, biceps tense. The grassy bed beneath them leaves very little wiggle room for escape, and soon the trampled grass and sunken earth gives Stiles something to push back against, a leverage so Derek’s thrusts feel harder and rougher.

“Yeah, Derek, fuck. Like that—_ please _,” Stiles begs, breaking off on a moan. He scratches up Derek’s back, clings to his shoulders before he tangles his hands in Derek’s hair and drags him down for a demanding kiss.

Derek’s chest is hot and firm against his, crushing him down against the grass as their tongues slide wetly against one another. Derek licks a smooth stripe from the corner of Stiles’ mouth to his temple, and when his cockhead glances across Stiles’ prostate, Stiles sees twice as many stars in the sky.

His arms drop down into the grass over his head, fingers tangling lightly with the clover flowers and blue bells as he bares his neck and moans.

Seeing the effect the move had on his omega, Derek grabs Stiles by his hips and tilts his next thrust just so. It’s harder, rougher, the growl that escapes through his clenched teeth raising the hairs on the nape of Stiles’ neck. He moans again, and again, until each thrust forces a desperate, brittle cry out of him and his body has gone limp to Derek’s control.

And Derek controls him so beautifully, somehow gentle even as he starts fucking Stiles in earnest. He’s rough and fast, his hands bruising Stiles’ skin, but he holds Stiles with reverence, and every move he makes only floods Stiles with more and more pleasure. Nothing about what Derek does causes him pain or discomfort, and Stiles is almost positive the textbooks must be lying when they say the first time hurts. Even though Derek is probably ten inches with a girth that should make any omega bleed, Stiles is drenched and willing, every nerve alight with pleasure as the alpha above him takes and takes and gives back tenfold.

Derek is saying something, and Stiles blinks up at the sky, his mouth hanging open as he focuses on Derek. The fire makes his skin burn bronze, the shadows washing him in moonlight, and he’s so beautiful Stiles almost blurts it out. “C’mere,” Derek says again. “Come here, baby,” he purrs, and he gets his arms under Stiles’ shoulders and hoists him up.

Stiles settles on Derek’s lap easily, keening when the shift in gravity impales him on Derek’s cock. His arms are tired, but he folds them around Derek’s shoulders and lightly holds onto one of his own wrists and the back of Derek’s neck.

The little claws on Derek’s necklace tickle Stiles’ chest, the white tails and leather chord smelling heavily of pine and musk.

Derek fucks up into him with new strength, each thrust forcing pleasure on Stiles as his prostate is abused. His cock drips wetly between them, dragging streaks across Derek’s abs as it bobs. Derek wraps one arm around the small of Stiles’ back, the other barring across his shoulders with claws at the base of Stiles’ neck.

“I’ve wanted you… I wanted you for so long, I didn’t think,” Stiles swallows, his mouth dry from panting. “Didn’t think you even…”

“I did, Stiles. I do.” Derek kisses Stiles’ shoulder, his hands spread wide across Stiles’ back. 

Stiles breathes in the heady scent of Derek, sweat and musk and the heat of sex rising between their bodies, and he holds on tight and just lets Derek fuck him as he likes. Maybe it’s a first time thing, but Stiles feels like he could take this for hours while at the same time his body is begging for it to end. He can’t even fuck down against Derek’s upward thrusts—he’s a helpless, slack omega in Derek’s arms.

As useless as Stiles feels right now, Derek doesn’t seem to mind. He’s more intent on making sure Stiles’ pleasure is seen to, though from the growls and breathy sighs he keeps releasing, he must be enjoying himself.

“You feel so good, Stiles. I’m so close—are you close, baby? Do you wanna come for me?” Derek pants against Stiles’ throat.

Stiles nods, letting his head fall back so Derek can lick and suck on his pulse as much as he wants. “Yes, Alpha. Close. S-_ ah _, so close. Wanna come for you.”

“Just me,” Derek growls, teeth scraping the tender skin of Stiles’ bare throat.

Stiles mewls in reply. He’s incoherent to everything but his own pleasure, to Derek’s warmth under and around him and through him, more intense than the fire beside them. He pushes his face into Derek’s neck, hiding from everything that isn’t Derek breathing warmly against him, holding him close. Stiles scents Derek gently, breathing in the balminess of Derek’s heady spice.

“Derek,” Stiles sighs.

With gentle nudges, Derek gets Stiles to lift his head, kissing up the column of Stiles’ throat to get him to tilt his head back. “I’ve got you, baby—come for me. Let everyone hear you.”

And it’s that easy. Derek’s words, like a blessing of permission, have Stiles shaking apart, and he claws at Derek’s shoulders and clenches his thighs around Derek’s waist as he starts to come. The sound he makes is close to a scream, desperate and brittle loud. It’s more violent than any orgasm he’s had before, his chest heavy, cock throbbing as it starts to spurt cum across Derek’s stomach. His inner walls spasm around Derek’s dick, clutching at Derek’s thickness inside him desperately.

Derek growls against his neck, fangs threatening to break the skin before Derek relents and starts sucking on the flesh instead.

Stiles practically weeps at how good it feels, the tremors that keep rocking his body grinding him down against Derek’s dick.

The sky arches above him, and then Stiles is lying sprawled in the grass, lost in a magenta haze of pleasure fog. Derek pulls out of him, and Stiles’ whole body trembles at the loss. His hands paw at the cool grass, his body burning up, and he barely has enough mental wherewithal to kiss Derek back when those lips and tongue are on his again.

Derek is groaning, the sound almost pained, and Stiles gasps contentedly when he feels the first splash of cum land hot and wet just beneath his naval. Derek comes like an alpha—long and loud. Rope after rope of cum paint Stiles’ cock and the inside of his thighs, and his low, moaning growl is like thunder in Stiles’ bones.

Soon he’s marked and wet, and Derek collapses into the grass beside him and drags Stiles onto his chest with a rumbling groan. Derek wraps his legs around Stiles’, burying his face into Stiles’ neck to scratch at his skin with his beard.

When his mobility starts coming back online, Stiles drapes one arm over Derek and pets his sweat-damp hair with his other hand. He can’t even open his eyes, sated and content and feeling safe. Soon the drums are much faster than his heartbeat, and the crackle of the fire is like a lullaby combined with Derek’s gratified purring.

Howls in the distance and close-by snarling indicate more wolves taking advantage of their primal side, coming to the edges of the field for less public shows of feral eroticism, and Derek curls around Stiles tighter, growling into his pulse.

Before Stiles even has a chance to think about being cold in the late autumn night, Derek is shifting, rolling them so Stiles’ back is to the fire, his front to Derek’s furnace of a body. He gingerly drags Stiles’ cloak over his back, careful of the mess between them as it covers Stiles from the nape of his neck down to his thighs.

Humming, Stiles listens to Derek breathe, closer and louder than the Hunter’s Moon party still raging not too far from them. He curls his fingers against Derek’s chest, brushing the leather charm chord around his neck. 

Derek kisses Stiles’ temple, then murmurs against his hair, “As soon as I can stand, I’m taking you to my house to make you mine.”

Stiles’ belly quivers, and he clings to Derek tighter. He’s flattered and pleased that he left an alpha temporarily useless, and he’s sure the glee is coloring his scent as Derek nuzzles into his hair. Still, as his mind clouds with exhaustion, Stiles kisses Derek’s collar bone, feels Derek’s arms around him hug imperceptibly tighter.

“Yours… Can’t wait to say I’m yours.”

The words are almost lost to him, but Stiles is sure as he slips into sleep, he feels Derek say very softly against his forehead, “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we have had an adventure! This work might become part of a small series, just if I want Derek and Stiles to go and really consummate their bond, but for now, we have some drums and howling and some sex in the grass by a bonfire, which is the height of romance.  
The Wolf has been a song that makes me wanna GO FUCKIN for a good long minute, and I think I started writing this fic so long ago I don't even have a start date, I just knew I wanted drums and fire and clothes coming off in the grass. Stiles becoming a wolf for the ABO elements of this fic came later, just because I decided so.  
If you enjoyed this, leave it some love and I'll consider a sequel, and I'm currently writing up part 3 of [ Our Fevered Souls](https://archiveofourown.org/series/771363/) , so that Wolf!Derek smut is coming to you guys. Thanks for being my pretty, patient darlings  



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